Too Much Stuff (14 page)

“It’s called deacidification.” Kathy Ebert sat at her desk, piled high with papers and books, and the three of us were hanging on every word.

“And you do it here?”

“We do. On older books. Antiquarian collectors do it. There used to be a lot of acid in paper and, just like the piece you’ve got there, it turns yellow and crinkly over time. So the idea is to preserve the paper. We can stop the acid from doing any more damage with Bookkeeper Deacidification Spray.”

“But we need to open it without destroying the—”

“Bookkeeper Solution is a nonaqueous, liquid phase process that uses magnesium oxide.”

“A nonaqueous what?”

“Not important, Mr. Moore. Once we fix the letter, we’ll use Bookkeeper. Right now we want to open your letter without, as you said, destroying it.”

“And how do we do that?”

“We’re going to treat it like a cigar. Put it in a humidor.”

We watched as she pulled out a wet sponge, opened a box of Baggies, and put the sponge and our folded paper in one of the plastic bags.

“We expose the paper to as much humidity as possible. Then, tomorrow—”

“Tomorrow?” The three of us said it almost together. And we all three sounded disappointed. We had work to do and the letter was crucial to our investigation. We were hoping for today. She assured us she couldn’t hurry the process.

“It’s going to take about twenty-four hours. Minimum. Then, we’ll try to unfold it. We’ll apply some blotter paper to give it more moisture, loosen the fibers.”

“And when you open it tomorrow?”

“Some of it will break. It’s inevitable, considering the condition it’s in. That’s when we go to plan B.”

“And that is?” Even Em was impatient.

“Japanese tissue.”

“More moisture?”

“No,” Kathy said. “This transparent tissue is lightly coated with an adhesive, like Elmer’s Glue. It’s actually a polyvinyl adhesive coating. We put the letter back together like a jigsaw puzzle. Then we place the strips of Japanese tissue over the broken areas, like tape. When we apply a warm iron, the strips literally melt into the paper and almost seamlessly hold the letter together.”

James, Em, and I sat back in awe. Kathy beamed.

“We do it here from time to time.”

“And we can read whatever is on the paper?”

“If all goes well, it should read as well as when it was written.”

“This is great. So, you won’t open it until we’re here right?”

“It’s safe. I’ll wait until we’re all assembled tomorrow.”

I looked at James. If someone else read the information on
that paper before we did, they might just go find the precious yellow metal themselves. But I figured we could trust Kathy. We had to trust someone. And if you couldn’t trust a librarian, who could you trust?

The restaurant was old, made of wood and stucco and painted green. Bentley’s Raw Bar was upstairs and it was all dark wood and small tables. The bar was well stocked, and as we walked by the cute barmaid smiled. At James.

“Debit card is going down fast.” We pulled out chairs and sat down.

“Yeah, but Skip, since we found that letter, I think the lady is going to open up her pocketbook.”

I’d held it in until I felt certain we’d have access to our letter. But I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“James, Em, this morning, after the shooting, Mrs. T. agreed that if we find the gold, we get two million dollars.”

They were stunned.

“This is no joke?”

“No joke. I don’t have it in writing, but verbally she agreed. Two million, my friend. Two million, Em.”

James kept shaking his head. “Two million. Oh, my God. Two million.”

The smile on his face went from ear to ear.

“We’re still a long way from that precious metal, pard, but damn. If we just keep moving in the right direction.”

We ordered appetizers that were surprisingly good. Gator tail, crabmeat balls, and escargot cappricio. Being the gourmet of the group, James was in his element. He still had dreams of being executive chef at some fancy restaurant. A million bucks could do a lot to advance his career.

“Buy our own place, Skip. Just like we talked about in college.”

Em smiled. She tolerated us. Our fantasies.

“A million bucks doesn’t go as far as it used to.” Running her daddy’s construction business, I figured she would know.

“Let me change the subject for a moment, guys. I’ve been thinking about these guys Malhotra and O’Neill.”

“What about them?”

“Do they know that you’ve been digging on Dr. Malhotra’s property?”

We’d been surprised they didn’t know about it the first time.

“I don’t think so.”

“Do they know about the gold? Were they aware you knew where the map or whatever’s in that box was? Is that why they were taking you away at gunpoint? Is that it?”

James washed down a gator bite with his draft. “I don’t think they had a clue what we were up to.”

“So why were O’Neill and the other guy so fired up to take you two away? They basically suggested they had some vigilante justice planned for you. That line about no cops being involved? I seriously think they were going to kill you. There had to be a reason.”

And I thought she was right.

“So, even though it may not have anything to do with missing treasure, why do you think they wanted you out of the way?”

“Or maybe still do. Do you think that shooting this morning was set up by Malhotra and O’Neill?”

“Maybe, but you’re missing the point.”

We often missed the point. We specialized in missing the point.

“Why are they afraid of you?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Because you saw the boat come in. You were right there when it docked. The dogs ratted you out, and then later somebody recognized your truck.”

“Because of the black stain.”

“Right. So they were able to track it to you. What makes them so afraid of you? Why do you scare them?”

“Okay, Em, the boat.” I sipped on my Yuengling. The restaurant was warm, with just some fans to cool it, but the beer was like ice and tasted perfect. “The boat is the key, right?”

“Probably, but why?”

James popped the last crabmeat ball into his mouth. Talking with his mouth full he said, “Something we saw.”

“What did you see?”

“The boat.” He was again missing the point.

“What else?”

“People getting off the boat.”

“What else?”

“They were carrying suitcases.”

Em nodded. “There’s something else there. I’ll be damned if I can see it, but it had to be right in front of your face.”

“Em, if this has nothing to do with the gold, why should we be so worried about it? I mean, other than the fact that they were marching us away at gunpoint?”

Em rolled her eyes, as she often does when talking to James.

“Because somebody tried to shoot us today, James. And I’d
like to know why. Maybe saving our own lives is more important than finding the gold.”

James swallowed the remains of his rich brown beer. Damn, it was nice to be on an expense account.

“We can save our lives by going home, boys and girls. Back to Miami, Em. Back to Coral City and our rat nest of an apartment, Skip.”

The three of us looked at each other.

“And then again, maybe we can save our own lives and find this elusive gold,” said Em.

“Yeah,” I echoed her sentiments. “That would be nice.”

We paid the check with Mrs. T.’s debit card and left a generous tip. We’d just hit the lady up for another thou. After all, we were worth a whole lot more than when we woke up this morning.

In the parking lot, James drained two more quarts of oil into our leaky old engine.

On our way back, he asked me about the computer.

“Glad you reminded me. Drive by the sheriff’s office and I’ll duck in and pick it up. Big D told me they were done with it.”

“Big D?” Em asked. “He didn’t seem to be a very big guy.”

“Maria’s ex. I asked her the same question.”

“What did she tell you?”

“What do you think?”

Em dropped it.

“We might have another problem. They took Em’s gun.”

“Which isn’t Em’s gun,” James stated.

“I’m not sure whose gun it is. It seemed to belong to the guy we met on the golf cart. The one with the diamond earring.”

“We can always pray that it’s not registered,” Em said. “Because if it comes back that the pistol was stolen, I could be in some serious trouble. I’m pretty sure that the crime of stealing a weapon is a felony.”

“Em, for God’s sake, they were using the gun on us.”

“Your word against theirs, James.”

I could tell I was about to get a lecture.

“Think about it. Here’s a guy who works part time at Cap’n Crab as a line cook who moonlights as a PI, and on the other side, there’s a vascular surgeon with strong ties and strong business connections in his community.”

She turned to me. “Here’s a guy who dabbles as a private investigator and sells security systems to people who have nothing to secure, and over here there’s an orthopedic surgeon, probably president of his Rotary Club and the fair-haired boy in Islamorada.”

She waited, timing her delivery.

“Just who are they going to believe?”

She was right. I prayed that the gun wasn’t registered to anyone. If it was, Emily could be doing time.

“You go into the embassy, in character, during a party. Hide in plain sight.”

I couldn’t place it.

“Come on, man. Tom Cruise, nineteen ninety-five or six.”

“
Mission Impossible
.”

“Yeah.”

“And it has relevance because?”

“Something happened in plain sight and we’re missing it, just like Em said.”

James had actually agreed with Em. That was a surprise.

“A boat came in. People got off the boat.”

Emily had gone to the room to freshen up. Guys don’t freshen up. Splash some water on my face and I’m good to go. James and I sat in two beach chairs, staring out at the flat water and the clear blue sky.

“What did those people have?”

“Suitcases. All of them had suitcases,” I said.

“Personal items or are they posing as tourists and actually smuggling something?”

“Whoa. That’s a thought.” I was impressed. James was really getting into this.

“What are they smuggling?”

“Okay, this is a stretch, amigo, but what if, what if this gold thing is out there. What if Weezle and Markim found the gold bars? Maybe in the ocean. Maybe they found a treasure map. What if these people are out there, diving and bringing back the gold bars in those suitcases?”

And just like that, I wasn’t so impressed.

“James, that’s really far-fetched.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

We sat there watching seagulls swirl around a small fishing boat that drifted offshore.

“Swordfish tournament going on this week.”

He nodded his head. “This is the Keys, son. There are always fishing tournaments going on.”

“This one runs from seven in the evening until three in the morning.”

“And you think the boat coming in at that hour—”

“Em thinks.”

“I think what?” She snuck up and put her hands on my shoulders. “I put the computer under the bed.”

“And the gun?”

She smiled. “The thirty-eight? Where I can get it if I have to.”

They’d released the pistol as well. With five shells left. There was a verbal warning to get it registered, so apparently no one had claimed ownership. And since there was no evidence that she’d shot anyone, they gave it back to her. I decided she was the perfect person to be the keeper of the pistol—KOTP.

“I was just telling James that you thought the timing of the fishing tournament and the boat coming to dock at three thirty might be tied together.”

“Just a thought,” she said. “And, by the way, I’m going to the drugstore. Got to get a new nail file after my last one went to the good of the cause. Want to come?”

What I really wanted to do was drive. Her Carrera was hot and I’d never been behind the wheel of a Porsche. The black beauty had three hundred forty-five horsepower. The powerful V-6 was meant for speed, but during our short trip to the store she kept it at forty-five. No, she did not let me drive.

“It’s brand-new, Skip. You know how I am with my cars.”

I did. She rode them hard, kept them for a year or two until she was tired of them, then got rid of them. And when she would go on hiatus during our relationship, I was always afraid that was what she was doing to me.

She pulled into the parking lot and I grabbed her arm.

“Check it out.”

Parked on the right side of the store was a black Harley with a gold fender.

“There’s got to be more than one, Skip.”

“Park in the other row so we can see who gets on it.”

“What if this person works here? We could be waiting a long time.”

She pulled in and we waited. Ten minutes went by and we looked at each other.

“Private investigators do stakeouts that last hours. Days.”

She was right. The two of us were impatient after ten minutes.

“Give it another ten.”

“I guess my nails can wait that long.”

Ten minutes to the second he walked out the door. Slight build, in a short-sleeved shirt and jeans. I studied him as well as I could, trying to see if he resembled Todd Markim, Weezle’s partner. He had a similar look, but I’d only seen the Internet
Yellow Pages ad, and at this distance I wasn’t quite sure. What we both noticed was his right arm.

From his wrist to his elbow it was wrapped in gauze and bandages.

“Could’ve had an accident and scraped it pretty bad,” I said.

“Could have scalded it. Maybe he was cooking and accidentally spilled boiling water on it.”

“Maybe he was working on the bike and—”

“Let’s say it, Skip. Could be a flesh wound from a bullet.”

The man pulled on his helmet, gingerly, and headed out into traffic.

“Okay, okay, the nail file can wait.” Em gunned the engine and we were in pursuit.